Something very strange happened at our house the other day. In our
cold country we keep a stove in our sitting-room all summer. Sometimes
we have to build a fire, even in July and August.
One afternoon I was surprised to hear a great scratching in the room.
After looking about a little, I found it came from the stove. Scratch,
scratch, scratch, as if some creature was trying hard to get out. I
called my boy of eight years. For a few moments all was still, and we
concluded the poor thing had got out as it had come in.
But we were mistaken; soon came that same clattering noise again. We
removed the top of the stove and peeped in; nothing was to be seen in
the darkness. We then made bold to open the door and poke about; but
with no better result. After listening, we decided that the creature
was between the lining and outside.
But how were we to get at it? Annie came in from the kitchen armed
with a poker. We took out the damper and poked out all the soot and
ashes. We brought to the front--what do you think? Why, a little bird,
a chimney swallow, chirping and fluttering, poor thing, with fright.
One wing seemed to droop a little; so we took it up and put it in a
box. If we supposed it was going to stay there we were much mistaken.
Soon the bird began to recover, and with a little hop was upon the
edge of the box cocking its head and looking with its big, bright eyes
all about, as if on the alert for any new danger.
A tree was the best and safest place, and Hervin carried it out and
set it gently down.
It rose, feebly at first, then soared away over the tops of the
houses.
Wasn't that a queer place to find a birdie? You are glad it got out,
for that very night we had to have a fire.